


Defenders

by kitausu



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Daddy Kink, Getting Together, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, kingsman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitausu/pseuds/kitausu
Summary: The Defenders are a top secret government organization charged with the mission of protecting society with whatever means necessary. Lance is a normal guy with a normal life and a family that he needs to protect. Except, on the night he is busted for a joy ride, Lance finds himself in a world he never knew existed and with the opportunity of a lifetime.(Eventual NSFW)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the first chapter of the Kingsman AU! This is a fic completely out of my normal wheelhouse in many ways. But I really wanted to challenge myself here so I hope you guys like it. It will have many similar elements to the film, but it also won’t follow everything faithfully just because, what’s the fun in that? Excuse me while I nervously bite my nails after posting this!

-Prologue-

Lance sighed, clicking the safety on his gun and setting it into the case at his feet. Shiro was down on the ground, beating the shit out of the only man still living, trying to get information on Zarkon. His knuckles would probably be all battered and bruised later, even inside his gloves. Lance wondered if it was a little sick that he couldn’t wait to get him home and kiss them better.

There was a text waiting on his phone when he pulled it out, a few hours old. It was probably from right before Shiro went to work.

 _Daddy:_ What do you want for dinner? I was thinking sushi but I’m open to whatever

“Please, please, I don’t know anything—” the man whimpered below.

Then there was the sound of Shiro’s fist hitting, again and again, and Shiro, silent and implacable as ever. Lance shivered at the sound, excitement sending sparks of electricity down his spine.

 _BabyBlue:_ Sushi’s good but I want tempura too! ❤

Lance pocketed his phone and picked up his rifle case. The van was on the other side of the building, waiting for Lance and Shiro to return. Hunk was probably bored of sitting around, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel or texting Keith, who had gone silent in Lance’s ear.

Quickly, Lance scaled down the side of the building and towards the black vehicle. The hinges were nearly silent as Lance slid the door open and hopped into the back.

“Hey, where’s Shiro?” Hunk glanced over his shoulder, his fingers deftly typing at the keyboard on the screen.

“Just finishing up.” Lance kicked his feet up on the bench seat, closing his eyes as he listened to the night sounds and waited for Shiro.

They had been doing this for a while, running ops together. Shiro had worried at the beginning that it would be too hard, for Lance to see Shiro in danger, for _Shiro_ to see _Lance_ in danger. And it was an easy assumption to make. Lance was normally so… _Lance_ out of the field. He craved Shiro’s attention and loved to be pampered and he dressed however he wanted to dress, flashing mid-drifts and bare toes wherever he went. Lance knew how to work a room, to put everyone at the disadvantage by counting him out just by being himself.

Shiro still couldn’t believe he had been one of the many fooled. He took Lance to his bed most nights, and even he couldn’t have predicted the change that came with putting a gun in Lance’s hand.

To this day, Lance still got a thrill of satisfaction from the memory of stunned approval in Shiro’s eyes the first time Lance shot an enemy between the eyes with barely a glance.

He smiled when the van suddenly dipped, signaling Shiro’s arrival. A puff of breath fanned across Lance’s face, Shiro’s lips descending on his just seconds later.

“Hey baby, you did so good,” Shiro cooed against his mouth, stubble brushing Lance’s cheek, before stepping away to slide the door closed and signal to Hunk to drive.

“Thanks, daddy. You weren’t so bad yourself,” Lance finally opened his eyes and found Shiro smiling at him from across the van.

There was a little cut on his cheek and blood had stained the collar of his suit but all Lance could think of was how much he wanted to be on his knees for him.

They were so absolutely and completely fucked up, and Lance loved every second of it.

-1-

Lance grimaced as he kicked at the front door to his apartment. It was raining outside and he had left a giant smear of mud across the already dingy white of the wood. His mother would likely kill him for it later, but it was the only way to knock with the groceries filling his arms and his keys tucked in his back pocket.

“Mama! Come get the—” Lance startled when the door swung open quickly, his sister’s face appearing there instead, her skin washed out from anxiety or fear.  

“Shut up, idiot,” she hissed, grabbing at his arm and yanking him inside before slamming the door again.

“What? What’s wrong?” Lance looked around, frantically trying to find the apparent danger but all he saw was Mama and his little brother in the kitchen, looking after a pot of stew.

With the door closed and locked, Sara looked much calmer. She even managed to roll her eyes, giving him an exasperated shrug as she said, “Landlord.”

It was all the explanation Lance needed, really.

The landlord had been a constant pain in their collective asses ever since they had moved to the complex and it honestly killed Lance that he couldn’t do anything about it. No matter what happened, that swine always managed to come calling. He was like the plague, or a bad case of athlete’s foot. Even though they paid their rent on-time every month, the jackass always managed to find an excuse or somehow miraculously lose the check he had already cashed.

He was constantly coming around, demanding more money, threatening to increase the rent. Lance wanted to move, they all did, but it just wasn’t possible. Breaking their lease was out of the question when they were barely holding on as it was.

“Do you have work tonight?” Lance’s Mama asked, smiling when he moved more fully into the kitchen to kiss her cheek.

“Yeah, just stopped by to drop these off.” Lance indicated the groceries on the kitchen table.

“Lance don’t spend your—” his Mama started, but he just smiled and kissed her cheek again.

“It’s okay, Mama. I wanted to.”

She sighed but waved him off. “Go get a bowl and at least eat something before you leave.”

The food did smell delicious, and Lance had made better time then he had expected at the store. Besides, he wasn’t going to turn down his Mama’s cooking, even if he _was_ going to be late. Their kitchen was tiny, but cozy with mismatched cushions on every seat. Lance was just sinking into his favorite chair when his sister brought the bowl over for him. Lance groaned in appreciation at the sight. The broth smelt amazing, the chicken clearly falling apart in the bowl it was so tender.  

Lance couldn’t help but shovel a huge spoonful into his mouth, dribbling down his chin as he slurped.

“Gross,” Sara chided affectionately, joining him at the table with her own bowl.

They ate together in silence, kicking at each other lightly under the table to try to get the other to spill.

Lance was triumphantly scraping the bottom of his bowl when the doorknob started to jiggle. Sara jolted from her spot at the table, Lance quickly following suit as the door swung open and the landlord’s grinning face appeared.

For a man only in his 40s, he looked terrible; skin hung down in folds around his jowls, his crooked yellow teeth peaking out from between too thin lips.

“I’ve come for the rent,” he leered, his eyes quickly tracking to Lance and lingering long enough to make Lance’s skin itch.

“We already paid,” Sara snapped, taking an aggressive step forward.

She was only a few years older then Lance, but moments like this made her seem so much older, older then she needed to be so young.

“Oh, have you? I wasn’t sure.” The landlord stopped, tapping his finger against his chin as if in thought.

“Lance could always come help me look, of course,” the guy tried, quirking one wiry eyebrow up in a mockery of innocent suggestion.

It was the same song and dance as it always was; just another reason Lance tried to make himself scarce around here despite how much he loved his fammily. He couldn’t seem to help but bring more trouble for them then it was worth.

“Your eyes work just fine,” Lance replied, refusing to move even as the landlord edged further into the room and closer to his space.

It wasn’t a big room, the few shuffling steps were really all that were needed before the man was within touching distance.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I might need some help. A pretty thing like you could certainly make the check easier to find.” Another leer, although this time Lance could feel the breath on his face, the sticky unwashed scent filling his nose.

Lance knew the touch was coming even before it happened, fully ready to smack the landlord’s hand away. It was a shock then when it didn’t come at all. A bun of wild black hair had come between them, stopping the advance.

Lance’s Mama barely stood above 5’4”, but she was a lioness as she pushed the man away from her son. “Get out!”

“Watch yourself, or that rent check may just disappear,” the landlord scowled, but his Mama was not deterred, pushing and shoving until his feet crossed the threshold and she could finally slam the door.

It wasn’t an idle threat though and there was no money to pay it, no recourse to follow. They could barely pay it out right, let alone twice as much. Lance could feel the tears of frustration starting to build up in the back of his eyes, his chest growing tight as he stared at the door.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Lance hissed, his throat closing so his words only came out as a whisper.

Rushing back across the room, Lance’s Mama took his face in her hands, stroking his cheek tenderly. “Baby, baby, why? Why are you sorry?”

Lance could only shake his head. He couldn’t have gone with him. He _couldn’t._ But he could have done _something,_ he felt so sure of it in his heart.

“I have to go to work,” Lance whispered, breaking out of his mother’s hold and snatching up his bag.

He didn’t mean to slam the door when he left, but there was nothing else to do. Lance hated himself sometimes, hated how helpless he was.

-

It was dark out when Lance stormed out, the street lights reflecting off of water still standing by the curb from that morning’s rain. Lance knew he should head on to work. He normally took the bus but he was too keyed up to sit and wait at the stop. Instead, he continued to shuffle down the road, absently kicking rocks and abandoned cans in turn as he moved in the opposite direction of where he needed to go.

The lines on the road were patchy, reflecting haphazardly as he moved past them. The occasional car would drive by, going the opposite direction, sending water and mud spraying up on the other side walk where Lance thankfully was not. He knew better then to walk on the sidewalk, passing in front of the gaping mouths of alleyways. It was an invitation for a mugging…or worse.

Lance did look up every now and then though, trying to catch a glimpse of eyes in a hoodie or the flash of a knife. He was about to turn around, when he looked up again and saw it.

The black Maserati was clearly owned by a careless idiot, too stupid to know better than to park that kind of car on this side of town. Lance saw cars like this every now and then. Most people thought they were gangster cars, but Lance was nearly positive they belong to some shlup visiting a mistress.

The smart part of his brain, the part that sounded like Mama and Sara, told him to keep walking. But Lance was angry and bitter and walking wasn’t doing it.

Lance wanted to fly.

When Lance reached for the handle, he was surprised to find it unlocked, the door opening smoothly as he pulled. After that, it was child’s play to hotwire the car. The owner was likely too use to valet and security enabled garages to take any kind of steps against someone like Lance.

He grinned when the engine purred to life, gentle as a cat. The steering wheel felt good, too. Smooth buttery leather under his fingertips. When he revved the engine, Lance couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you talking to me, girl?”

He wouldn’t have long. A sound like that was bound to draw attention, here a monster contained in a cage too small, too vulgar. Lance glanced out the window, and sure enough, a door had opened, a scrawny guy in briefs was gaping at him in disbelief.

Lance rolled down the window and smirked. “Nice car!”

Whatever response he received was lost in the wind as Lance slammed on the gas.

No doubt the guy was on the phone calling the police right now. But air was blasting through the window and Lance was living. He rolled down the other three windows, letting the night air flood in, washing away his anger, his resentment.

Lance took a hard turn, whooping as his tires skid then caught. He was going to take this car out of the city, out to the water, out into the waves if he had to. The flash of red and blue behind him only seemed to drive him faster. The police cars were no match for the Maserati, the engine roaring under his hold, encouraging him, driving him on.

He really was flying. Lance McClain: ace pilot, fighter pilot, king of the sky.

Lance was sure, _really_ sure he would have gotten away with it if the car at an intersection hadn’t jumped the light. They told him later it was some little old lady whose license had been revoked. She thought the red had turned green. She had been smoking pot.

Slamming on the breaks, Lance lost control, the back of the car spinning out as he tried to avoid the station wagon puttering into the intersection. The impact of the side of the car into the light post was sudden and sickening but it could have been worse, much worse. It was on the passenger side, thankfully. Lance could feel parts of his body throbbing from impact as he tried to take stock, bruises already on their way to formation when the cop cars finally caught up.

They surrounded him, a buzzing nest of bullhorns and sirens and the click of guns as officers approached the car.

With a sigh of resignation, Lance pushed open the door and got out with his hands over his head. At the very least, the chill of the handcuffs kind of felt good against his sprained wrist.

-

Pidge couldn’t believe the footage she was watching. The car should have been completely out of control at that speed, especially something as dumpy as a Maserati. But the driver handled it like nothing more than an unruly kitten, taking turns that would have toppled less experienced drivers. .  

Shiro walked in while she was watching, looking smooth as ever in a bespoke suit. He was fixing his cufflinks and watch when Pidge finally paused the footage. The driver was kneeling on the ground beside the car on screen, an ironic little twist to his mouth as he let the officer’s arrest him.

“Who is this?” Pidge asked, a little amused, a lot in disbelief.

When Shiro looked up, he smiled at the screen. There was a sadness there though that Pidge didn’t fully understand, not until Shiro said the name.

“ _That,_ ” Shiro pointed at the screen, “is Lance McClain. Son of the former Blue Lion.”

Pidge froze, turning slowly back to the screen. She rewound the tape, watching in reverse as the car righted itself and drove backwards towards the police.

“Well…that explains some things at least,” Pidge nodded, pressing play to watch the chase again. “Are you going to go get him?”

There was no reply, but they both knew the answer anyway. Shiro straightened his tie before picking up one of the new guns Pidge had finalized from R&D.

“See you around,” Shiro grinned, saluting playfully before walking out the door to pick up his new recruit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but I decided to post it because I really did not want to finish out July with only 1 chapter up. Hopefully I will be able to get a lot of writing done in the next week or two and things will come more regularly (at least for a while!)

Shiro looked down at his watch, the tiny screen showing Lance in a holding room at the local police station. One of the investigators was in there, leaning back on a chair and very obviously trying to play the “good guy.” If Shiro hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed the way Lance licked his lips, and the slow flush crawling it’s way up the investigator’s neck.

Waiting for the investigator to leave, Shiro finally pushed off from the brick wall outside the station and walked in.  He could see Lance chuckling to himself when he finally closed out the feed.

The thing was, Lance looked enough like his father that it made Shiro wince, guilt niggling at him like a bad tooth he hadn’t bothered yet to fix. It made it even worse to watch the practiced way Lance flirted with the officer, dispelling and recreating tension with the long lines of his body.

Shiro hadn’t known Lance’s father well, but just the idea that he had died on the job, that he had left a son to learn those tricks as his main line of defense, that Shiro was about to offer this kid the _same_ job _because_ of those skills; it stirred up a moment of uncertainty that Shiro ruthlessly pushed back down with practiced care.

There was no time for regret or remorse. Voltron had a job to do and any attempt at penance would only get in the way of protecting the country. Besides, Voltron watched all of the family members of former agents, looking for talent. Lance McClain was just another one of those family members who happened to show an exceptional amount of aptitude for skills Voltron prized.

When Shiro walked into the building, most of the officers and inspectors there barely gave him a glance. It was part of his training, being able to blend in and stand out whenever the situation called for it. He was halfway to Lance’s holding room before anyone thought to stop him.

“Sir?” an officer came up behind Shiro, his steps heavy and unpracticed enough that Shiro already knew he was there well before he spoke or grabbed Shiro’s arm.

Turning, Shiro smiled and quickly adopted a pose of ease. He leaned in slightly as he moved, sidling a bit closer as he replied. “Can I help you?”

Lance McClain wasn’t the only one with tricks. There was a natural movement to Lance, but Shiro was trained, refined. The officer flushed immediately, his eyes wide and startled as Shiro continued to grin, his smile turning sharp, smelling blood in the water.

“Uh, no, I just…” The officer stuttered before Shiro allowed him to step back, the man’s fingers flexing involuntarily around Shiro’s bicep before yanking back, scalded.

It was only a moment before Shiro was past him and down the hall, leaving the poor officer with a smile and an apologetic explanation that _soandso had sent him back here to pick up his brother’s friend._

So many Voltron agents complained about working this close to civilians, but Shiro never understood why. People were usually so willing to help if you gave them the right excuses, the right look, the right touch. Shiro wasn’t above using his own looks to get what he wanted, and he always got we he wanted.

The door he wanted was at the end of the long precinct hallway. When Shiro reached for the handle to the holding room, he was surprised to find the door to Lance’s room unlocked. It was true that often times the local police were incompetent, fumbling basic tasks that Voltron agents could do in their sleep, but even this seemed a little much. Shiro was curious if it really was the work of an unthinking officer, or if Lance had made an attempt at showing off.

The toothy grin Shiro got when he walked through the door answered the question as much.

It was obvious exactly what Lance wanted the officer to know. Lance could leave if he wanted to, but he hadn’t. He was _letting_ the police hold him here. Shiro bit back a joke about him _not being just a pretty face._

It was too bad Lance’s skills were wasted on him, Shiro already knew all of these things and much more. It was one of the reasons Shiro was even here. He had read the file, had seen the footage. Lance was a troublemaker, but he was smart and _loyal._ The way he cared about his family made that easy enough to see.

Another thing came to mind quickly, something Shiro hadn’t seen in the dossier or in the recordings. But it was in the way Lance sat up a little straighter when Shiro walked in, tracking the tailored suit and the ease of his gait. Shiro carried command around him like a cloak, too long in the military and too long working for Voltron making it a difficult thing to shed, and it made him smirk to see Lance so clearly responding to it.

Shiro mentally filed away a new note for Lance’s file: _respect for authority and eager to please._ Not necessarily things Voltron looked for, but they were traits _Shiro_ found necessary in his own candidate choices. And it was clear that, despite his teasing attitude, Lance _did_ respect authority, it just depended on the kind. And maybe Shiro was that kind of authority he needed.  

Shiro didn’t exactly look like the average detective, and he could see suspicion in the lines of Lance’s forehead, even as he continued to sit at attention. And as Shiro rounded the table to stand on the other side, he was pleased to see Lance still leaning forward eagerly.

 “Who are you?” Lance asked, sounding far too curious for the teasing lilt Shiro knew normally laced his voice.

Shiro thought about going in depth, about how he had known Lance’s father, however briefly. But of course, there wasn’t time. He could hear the officers milling around outside, likely cooking up even more charges for their cheeky delinquent.

“I’m here to get you out of this place,” Shiro replied instead, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly as Lance’s eyebrows rose and a different kind of look crossed his face.

A slow smirk was pulling up the corners of Lance’s mouth as he suddenly slouched and sat back in his chair.

“Somewhere quiet? Somewhere on my knees?” Lance asked, splaying his legs open a little, inviting something Shiro suspected he had far more understanding of then he should have.

It was clear there was little intention in the movement though, Lance more likely trying to get a rise out of him then anything. And normally, Shiro would have rolled his eyes and let it go, but he was surprised and a little dismayed to find the cheesy come-on stirring up interest. Another annoying feeling Shiro needed to stamp out. It was the first in a long time that he had felt something like that, especially for a target, and there simply wasn’t time now, or really ever, to take it out and exam what it meant.

Remorse, regret, lust, these were things for other people. Instead, Shiro just gestured for Lance to follow. “Come with me.”

Shiro could tell that Lance was surprised, he was likely sure the Shiro would have stormed out or maybe even taken him up on his offer. Shiro found he wanted to tease him a little, tell him if he wanted to stun Shiro he would certainly have to try a lot harder than that. It was maybe a little of his imagination, but it seemed like there was a hint of disappointment in that look as well. Maybe Lance wouldn’t have actually _minded_ getting in his knees for Shiro. It wasn’t like Shiro couldn’t say his interest wasn’t peaked, Lance McClain in his pressed button down, his slacks that looked so unusual on his lanky frame and the tattoos Shiro knew covered his back. It was his work outfit, and Shiro found he was interested in getting him a new work outfit: bespoke.

Lance sat up a bit straighter, frowning now. “Where are we going?”

It seemed he had dropped the jokes when it was clear Shiro was serious or maybe just unlikely to take up his offer.

“You can come with me or wait for the inspector.” Shiro shrugged like it was of no consequence to him, already turning back to the door.

“You aren’t an inspector?” Lance asked, and Shiro was amused by how much honest curiosity was coming through in his words.

Already Shiro could feel more feelings clambering up, wonder at how Lance could be so innocent and so bold all at the same time. It made him feel protective and even a little mean. He wanted to tease him, to say: _Not so confident after all._ Shiro just raised one eyebrow instead, his hand resting on the door knob.

The thing was, Lance wasn’t known to have much impulse control, it was clear in all the things he had done that had gotten him on Shiro’s radar aside from his name. It seemed Lance got excited, his blood boiling in his veins until the next thing he likely knew he was jumping off a cliff…or stealing a car and talking to Shiro so casually in the holding room. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise to Shiro that Lance was hot on his heels before he was even out of the door.

Lance had kept up all the way to the door and was still beside him as they walked down the stairs of the precinct. It was there when he finally found his voice. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

Shiro considered drawing it out, but he stopped, smirking a little when Lance went a few steps in front of him before realizing Shiro had halted and having to back track.

“I’m Takashi Shirogane, and I’m here to—”

“Change my life?” Lance laughed, cutting him off with a soft smile, like he was in on the joke.  

Shiro would have been offended, he was trying to be cool. And yes, quoting lines from films _could_ be cool. But Lance was looking up at him from beneath his lashes and Shiro suddenly found he had forgotten what he was going to say.

“Well, Takashi--”

“Shiro,” Shiro corrected, walking forward to take his place at Lance’s side again.

“Alright, Shiro. Change my life,” Lance finished, gesturing forward for Shiro to show the way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to apologize for the pacing of this. Come to find out, the pacing of action fics is vastly different from romantic fics! Please bear with me as I work on it and I hope you enjoy the fic despite this! 
> 
> I also apologize for accidentally posting the chapter yesterday and deleting it! It is now up for good!

There were about a thousand reasons why Lance shouldn’t be doing this, all heard very clearly in the voice of his mama in his head. Except, what else was Lance supposed to do? The choice had been obvious: either sit and wait for the inspector to come back, deal with charges and a fee he couldn’t pay, or follow a really hot stranger out into the street where at the very least he could escape.

To Lance it was a no brainer.

He followed Shiro through the lobby, casting furtive glances at every cop they passed, although none seemed to be paying much attention to them.

It was only when Lance ended up walking directly into Shiro’s very broad and very muscular back did he realize he had stopped, and the investigator that Lance had originally been dealing with was standing right in front of them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The guy was generic cop material at best, dumb-fuck aviators pushed up onto the top of his head.

Lance wondered what episode of CSI he picked his wardrobe from because it was about as out of date as that show.

“Mr. McClain has been released into my custody,” Shiro explained, sounding just this side of respectable, but largely so bored he might have been fighting a yawn.

“On whose authority?” the guy snapped, already trying to side step Shiro to get to Lance.

He stopped when Shiro’s hand pressed against his chest, holding him in place seemingly effortlessly.

“On mine, actually.” Shiro grinned a shark’s grin, all teeth and menace in his voice.

Lance was suddenly very glad that he was standing _with_ Shiro, although maybe _away_ from Shiro would have all together been a better case. He didn’t think he would ever want to be against anyone that could look and talk like that. The issue was, it didn’t seem the cop had much in the way of self-preservation skills.

Tough line of work to be missing that in, Lance thought a little incredulously.

“Listen, bub, I don’t know who you are but—ggh.”

The movement of Shiro’s fist was almost too fast to catch. Lance felt his jaw drop as blood spattered down the cop’s shirt, dribbling from the clearly broken nose.

“Sorry, but I really just don’t have time for this,” Shiro apologized, pulling out a business card and attempting to hand it to the guy.

“Take it up with my boss?” Shiro shrugged, gesturing for Lance to follow him around the cop who was currently clutching his nose in the middle of the hallway, one of the edges of the business card soaking up blood on the floor where it had dropped.  

“Do you normally just go around punching people?” Lance asked, dogging close to Shiro’s heels and nearly stepping on the backs of his shoes as they walked out the door.

Shiro sighed, looking fairly repentant as he raked his hand through snow white hair.

“No, I don’t. And I honestly shouldn’t have done that,” Shiro admitted, stopping once they were out on the front steps of the station.

Shiro grimaced as he looked back at the police station. They could see people swarming the down cop through the glass. “He was just so… _annoying.”_

“A dickhead?” Lance offered at the same time as Shiro spoke.

It was actually a relief to see Shiro smile, to know the strange man he was about to follow gentle into that good night, who had so casually punched the lights out of some cop, was at least in possession of a sense of humor.  Lance could always work with a sense of humor.

“Don’t tell anyone I did that, if you don’t mind?” Shiro made it sound like a request, but Lance had a feeling it really really wasn’t.

“Sure,” Lance agreed easily, already plotting out what favor he would ask for in return.

The slow shake of his head Shiro gave him made it pretty obvious he knew exactly where Lance’s mind had gone.

When it was obvious Shiro was going to keep standing there, Lance decided to press his luck. “Out of curiosity, how did you know to come get me?”

“Surveillance,” Shiro replied shortly, casting one last look back at the door.

Someone was handing the cop a bag of ice to press to his face.

“Surveillance?”

Shiro was back to frowning now. He turned on his heel and stalked over to a sleek black car on the edge of the parking lot. Lance followed for lack of anything else to do. It was no Maz, but he was still suitably impressed when Shiro unlocked the door for him and the entirety of the inside was detailed to the absolute limit.

“Your father was in the same organization as I am,” Shiro hedged, settling into the embrace of the leather interior.

“The military?” Lance asked, skeptical.

Shiro didn’t look nearly old enough to have served with his dad. The hair was misleading, but Lance wouldn’t have pegged him much older than 30, if that. Making him barely 10 years Lance’s own senior.

“Sort of.” Shiro very obviously took the excuse to focus on backing out of the parking spot to avoid going into detail.

Lance waited until they were driving down the road to try again. “What do you mean sort of?”

If he hadn’t been watching Shiro so closely he likely would have missed the clench of his jaw and the slow tightening of his grip on the steering wheel as they turned down a street.

The knuckles on his hand were starting to bruise from where he had punched the officer.

“If I promise to tell you everything when we get to where we are going, will that satisfy you?” Shiro glanced at him, his eyes quickly cutting back to the road when Lance nodded.

“As long as you promise.”

Shiro swallowed. “I promise.”

The drive wasn’t a long one, really only about 20 minutes, and that was due mostly to traffic. Lance spent the entirety of it trying to work things out in his head. Shiro was obviously dangerous, but he didn’t _feel_ dangerous, not in the way that Lance had experienced. He wondered if it _was_ because Shiro was so dangerous.

Maybe it was like dogs. The little yappy dogs were always the most likely to bite you, but a Great Dane knew it was big and didn’t have to prove anything. Maybe Shiro was a Great Dane, too comfortable in its own abilities to even worry about intimidating someone like Lance.

When Shiro did finally park the car, Lance looked away from his face only to find they were parked in front of a fairly nondescript looking tailors’ storefront.

“What are we doing here?”

“You said you would wait,” Shiro chastised, sliding from the car and expecting Lance to follow.

Lance opened his mouth to reply but shrugged and got out of the car. He had said that, after all. Wordlessly he followed Shiro up to the store. It was clearly closed, only a few bulbs illuminating immaculate suits in the windows were on, the rest of the store shrouded in darkness. Lance couldn’t quite make out much more than a few shadows, some of them slipping in and out of his vision in a way that was much more than a trick of the light.

To his surprise, Shiro pulled out a key and made quick work of unlocking the door. He almost missed the way Shiro held still, his eyes unblinking as he watched the tiny camera half concealed in the grain of the wood. 

_The same organization as his father._

If Lance had expected anything though, it wouldn’t have been what he found: an entirely ordinary tailor’s shop, maybe a little out of date, but who was Lance to complain?

Lance opened his mouth to say something but Shiro only held his hand up, a universal sign to wait, or in Lance’s experience, to _shut up._ He contented himself instead at looking at all the suits hanging on mannequins and racks around the room. Lance always felt compelled to touch, his fingers trailing along the fine cut of each jacket, feeling the material slip through his fingers.

Glancing over his shoulder, Lance expected some kind of admonishment, but Shiro was only watching him, his eyes dark and…interested. Lance grinned, moving on instinct as he continued to feel up the suits on the rack beside him.

“We need to get going,” Shiro rasped, finally breaking eye contact to fiddle with something on the counter at the center of the shop.

“You’re the boss,” Lance sang.

He abandoned his inspection of the suits and moved back to Shiro, standing close enough to feel the heat of him. Shiro licked his lips, looking clearly like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Lance knew intellectually, that he should stop. He didn’t know Shiro, or what was going on, or even _where they were._ Every instinct said he was playing with fire here.

He needed to get to work, to go _home,_ to do so many things and take on so many responsibilities. But when Shiro told him to “come on,” Lance obediently followed him to the back of the store and to a door he hadn’t noticed before.

The door opened onto well…exactly what Lance had though the _first_ door would open onto. They were in what looked to be a part of the subway system except instead of a train and tracks, there was a tiny two-person pod waiting in a long plastic tube that jutted off forever in one direction.

“You don’t seem impressed,” Shiro frowned, and Lance actually thought he could see the hint of a pout forming when he looked at him.

“I’ve seen enough James Bond films,” Lance teased, already walking towards the pod to take a seat.

 Shiro sighed, and followed Lance in. When the door slid shut, Lance did startle a little. He thought he saw a look of amused satisfaction on Shiro’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a wicked smirk. “Hold on.”

-

It wouldn’t necessarily be accurate to say Lance nearly threw up. Throwing up implied food leaving the body. Lance’s dinner simply evaporated out of existence as they traveled at clearly inhuman speeds, zipping through the tube and patches of sunlight splashing in from who knew where.

Shiro, annoyingly, looked barely phased as he crossed his ankle over one knee.

“You’re enjoying this,” Lance accused before clamping his hand back firmly across his mouth.

“A little,” Shiro laughed, filling up the space with his voice.

Lance hated him a little when the tube came to an abrupt stop and he nearly slipped out of his chair.

When Lance steadied himself on Shiro’s knees, Shiro gave him an amused grin. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

For his part, Shiro did let Lance take a minute to recover, his knees jelly like as he sank to the concrete floor of their destination.

“Are you going to tell me where we are?” Lance asked his knees, concentrating on getting the ground to stop spinning.

“Eventually.”

“You know, this enigmatic bullshit is getting a little much.” Lance tried to sound venomous, but he mostly just sounded gassy.

“I really am sorry,” Shiro admitted, not sounding sorry at all.

Lance still took his hand when he offered it, allowing Shiro to haul him to his feet.

-

Lance blamed the motion sickness for preventing him from noticing the insignia everywhere. It was finally the large stylized V on what was virtually a vault door that had Lance finally looking around. That, more than anything, had Lance following Shiro cautiously through as the large metal door swung open.

“Is this a cult?”

Shiro snorted, “What?”

But Lance was already moving on, hurrying over the to row of rifles on display. “These aren’t even out yet!”

Without asking, Lance reached out and ran his finger along the edge of one of the sniper rifles. It was a weird hobby, one he didn’t ever tell people about. But before his dad had passed, Lance had done archery at school, then long range shooting for fun. He had even considered going into the army before…well…

He didn’t necessarily shoot anymore, but he kept up with things.

“Do you have any idea how expensive these are?” Lance accused, one hand still on the gun as he turned to stare at Shiro, appraising him.

“I do,” Shiro nodded, watching curiously as Lance continued to inspect the guns on the wall.

“Pick one.”

It was instinct to protest, to play polite. But desire was just as powerful as anything, and Lance had the gun out of the cradle and in his hands in seconds. He almost resisted when Shiro took it and laid it on the table, his mouth twisting up as the table sunk and the gun disappeared from view, a new table top sliding into place.

“It’ll be reserved for you, for later,” Shiro assured, gathering a few things he didn’t bother to explain before gesturing Lance out the door again.

Lance followed, taking in every V he saw, even the little gold ones that flashed on the bottoms of Shiro’s shoes whenever he picked up his heel. They moved through winding corridors before finally coming into a dining room. A woman around Shiro’s age was sitting at the end of the table, paperwork spread out around her.

When they made it halfway down the table, Shiro cleared his throat and the woman looked up. Her long silvery hair was pulled back into a bun that would have looked severe if not for the smile she shot them both. When she stood, Lance had expected her to be short, but they were roughly the same height.

“Lance?” she asked, moving quickly to shake his hand. “Welcome to Voltron. We’re so happy to have you with us for the application process.”

“Application process?” he frowned as her smile slipped.

She cast an accusing glare over his shoulder in Shiro’s direction. “You didn’t explain?”

Lance couldn’t see Shiro, but he sounded a little sheepish. “I told him I would when we got here.”

“You and your theatrics,” the woman complained, rolling here eyes.

“Lance, this,” she gestured around the room, “is Voltron. We are a secret organization outside of the government and we defend the country against threats. Shiro and I are part of Voltron, just like your father was.”

“My father?” There he was again, popping up like a bad taste, a memory bittersweet and nearly long forgotten.

“Yes, the former Blue Lion,” she reassured, taking both of Lance’s hands in her’s.

“Although you must compete for the spot, Shiro was hoping you would take your father’s place. He was a sniper, too, you know.”

Lance, of course, _had_ known that. It was one of the reasons he had always had an interest in the sport, but it felt odd coming out of someone else’s mouth.

_His father. Voltron. What did any of it mean?_


End file.
